


The Dawn of Man

by Pearly_Pornography



Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Depression, M/M, Self-Harm, Sequel, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-22
Updated: 2017-03-22
Packaged: 2018-10-03 15:48:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10250645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pearly_Pornography/pseuds/Pearly_Pornography
Summary: Sequel to "The End of Days".Alt ending where Nathan lives.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The End of Days](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9161755) by [Pearly_Pornography](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pearly_Pornography/pseuds/Pearly_Pornography). 



The weight of the mattress shifted. Pickles' eyes fluttered, feeling Nathan's skin, hot and sticky beside him. He was tired, teetering over and throwing his arm over Pickles' side, mouth half-open in the darkness.

"Nate'n, you alright? Y'feel kinda warm."

"Feelin' a little sick tonight." He grunted in response. "I'll be fine by morning."

Pickles squinted, prodding his face. "No, stoppit. Pickles."

"...Can you see properly?" Pickles sat Nathan up. His black-haired head lolled off to the side, as though it weighed twenty pounds. "Yer on fire and ya look like yer havin' dizzy spells. Are you feelin' nauseous or anythin'?"

"No."

"I'm gettin' you to a bathroom."

"No, wait--"

Despite their difference in height, Pickles had no problem hauling Nathan along with an arm around his back. His stomach was growling, which sure as hell wasn't making Pickles any less nervous. Propping him up in front of the toilet, he allowed Nathan to kneel over along the side of the bowl. The larger man vomited his guts out before he could argue. Pickles sighed, looking over to the counter in search of, possibly, some kind of stomach medication.

"Th' medicine cabinet is a wreck."

"Uh."

"Hey, what's dis back here."

"No."

Nathan's bulky leg swung out, sending Pickles falling onto his ass.

"Ow! Nate'n, what the fuck?!"

"No." He mumbled in reply, hiding his face in the gross puke water.

"Okay, you sound an' look like garbage. I'm callin' Charles."

"Don't, I'm fine."

"You're nah... izzat blood?"

-

At 1 AM, possibly 2, Pickles got Nathan hauled off to the hospital. Charles saw him off and said after meeting back with Pickles an hour later that there'd be a meeting in the morning regarding this, and then it was over. Pickles went back to bed, but he could not sleep. The bed felt empty. Instead he stared at the ceiling, counting the folds in the curtains and the chips in the paint. It was all he could do to keep from going mad.

Morning approached, as slowly as it could, and he forced himself out of bed.

Skwisgaar and Toki were already at the table. Skwisgaar with a cup of coffee, and Toki playing with a plastic tangle toy. Murderface still had yet to surface, which wasn't really surprising -- he was the type to sleep until the afternoon.

"So, what's ams dis meetings abouts?"

"Oh, uh..." Pickles scratched the back of his head. "Nate'n got sick 'n had to be hospitalized last night, so uh. Might just be postponing album work."

"Ams he okays?" Toki looked up, worry decorating his gaze. 

"I think so, we got him help 'n shit."

"What'd I missch." Murderface stepped in, wiping his tired eyes.

"Nate'ns been hospitalized."

"Pff."

"Hey, at least pretend to give a shit."

"But I don't."

Pickles rolled his eyes, kicking one leg over the other. Murderface plopped down in the seat next to him, head resting in his palms. Pickles stared towards the door. When would Charles show up? He was almost _always_ on time. His fingers tapped along the table as the door to the meeting room finally opened. Charles walked in, as blank-faced and robotic as usual, painted with disinterest and holding a clipboard in one hand. Same old, same old. 

"So, uh. Nathan's been hospitalized."

"Yeh. He'll probably be back in like, a couple days, right?"

"It might be a bit longer than that."

The four members of Dethklok cocked their brows at one another. "See, uh... it's a bit more complicated than a simple illness."

"Does someone tries to morders hims?" Toki wrung his fingers together.

"Not exactly."

"Wasch it a terrorischt attack? Did he get anthraxsch in the mail?"

"No."

"Fuck're you gettin' at?"

"Well, if you'd let me talk." Charles sighed. "We need to put Nathan under close attention."

"Seems a bit excessive. He just gaht sick."

"He overdosed on painkillers."

Skwisgaar paused at his scales, raising an eyebrow once more.

"You'd t'inks Natens would have beens dones dis enoughs to not overs-dose."

"He must've miscalculated." Pickles tacked on, drumming his spindly fingers on the table. "Once the high kicks in, y'don't really pay attention to how much yer takin' after that, right? His tolerance ain't too good so I guess it just gaht t'him when he came ta bed."

"...Boys."

Charles spoke flatly. And yet, the minuscule crinkle in his brow made Pickles nervous. He was about to be serious. "It wasn't an accident."

Immediately they were all shouting out different answers. The obvious was before their eyes -- some were too stupid, and others just didn't want to think it. Charles rose his hand, wordlessly requesting silence. His boys quieted down. "It wasn't a murder, or a terrorist attack, or an accident."

"Yeh...?"

"It also wasn't a physical illness, it..." He swallowed. "It was suicide."

Silence fell over the room.

"...What?"

"He left a letter in the bathroom--"

"He told me naht to touch dat!" Pickles grabbed it out of Charles' hands, slightly ripping the corner. His fists were shaking so violently he could barely even read the one, big word written on the sheet of paper. "GOODBYE", in pen ink. And then his name. "Nathan".

"What ams it says, Pickle?" Toki peered over his shoulder, taking the note from his now-loose hands. "It says... 'goods... byes'."

"I know what it fucking says, Toki."

"Hey, I wanna schee! Thisch can't be real, right? Gotta be a publischity schtunt."

"It's very real."

"Charles, I never saw you as the type, but this's a sick fuck'n joke to play."

"It's not a joke. What would I gain from doing this to you?"

"This's fucked up."

"Yes." Charles adjusted his tie. "...He's going to be on suicide watch for a long time until we think it's safe to leave him to his own devices. For now, our current album work has been postponed. Any questions?"

"Yeh, I gaht a question, what the fuck is wrong with you?!"

"I told you, I'm not joking. Don't try and say that I am." The moderate bite in Charles' voice shut Pickles up for a moment. His fingers intertwined.

"Can I see 'im?"

"Not right now. Perhaps in a few days..."

"Is he okay?"

"They had to pump his stomach. He's been better, but he's not dying."

-

The next few days were somber. Nobody saw Nathan. His bedroom was overrun by klokateers, though sometimes from his room, Pickles could hear him wailing. It was a haunting sound, like a sort of deep keening at a funeral.

It was like Nathan was mourning his own death.

Nonetheless, days slogged on endlessly. The days were boring and heavy and painful. The days were lonely and empty and heartless. The days were the same as ever, and yet, with the overhanging raincloud above Mordhaus. The dark fog that made everyone sullen. The blackness that nobody could see, but everyone could feel surrounding them in the deep, deep waves, swallowing everyone whole until they couldn't breathe. At least, that was how Pickles felt. He couldn't speak for anyone else. They all just kept to themselves.

No more did they convene in the living room to drink, watch TV and make merry. Women were filing in and out of Skwisgaar's room more than usual. Toki was the only one to keep his bedroom door open, and quickly ran out of paper in his coloring books. Now and then, one could hear episodes of Ren & Stimpy or The Cramp Twins through Murderface's bedroom door. As for Pickles, he drank it all away and did all the drugs he could. It was normal, and yet, somehow, the bad trips were even worse at the time. Ecstasy only enhanced his depression, and xanax only wanted to mollify it temporarily, though not allow it to disappear. 

Within a week, the klokateers had emptied out of the hall. Pickles' heart leaped as he made a mad dash for Nathan's doorway. It was slightly ajar. Pickles was paranoid, giving it a slight knock before entering. Loud, heavy steps echoed through the room, a green eye peering from the crack in the door.

"...'ey Nate'n."

"Uh... hi." He swallowed. "Come in, I guess."

Slipping into the room, Pickles saw something new -- though certainly not shocking. Pretty much every sharp decoration in the room had been taken away, leaving next to nothing inside. "It's kind of a mess." He sighed, throwing himself back in bed. Nathan wasn't looking too great, either. He was in his bathrobe and slippers, hair looking matted and unwashed. 

"...How are ya."

"Nnh."

"'s what I thought." Pickles sat down beside Nathan, toes just barely touching the ground. "...So, are we gonna talk about dis, or...?"

"What is there to talk about? I lived." 

"...You ain't gonna try it again, are ya?"

"I dunno."

"Well, now yer makin' me even less comfortable with the idea of leavin' you alone."

"It's fine."

"It ain't fine, I don't know what'd make you think it was fine, you could- you could'a _died!"_

"Yeah, well, maybe I wanted to."

"Why the hell would you want to? We're like... the 7th largest financial power in th' world!"

"God, shut up." Nathan curled his lip. "If you're here to be that way then you can just fucking leave."

"Okay, okay, sahrry." Pickles threw up his hands. How long had it been since Pickles had to play the band mom? At some level he'd been doing it since Dethklok began, but at this point they'd all mostly become self-sufficient, and now he'd forgotten how to deal with this stuff. "...What's goin' on in yer dome?"

"None of your business."

"I care about you, so yes, it is."

"What the fuck." Nathan's face rolled into a sarcastic scoffing grin. "That's gay, dude, don't care about me."

"We sleep together." Pickles rose an eyebrow. "How'm I s'posed to naht, I've known ya for... like, more'n ten years, I can't jest pretend everythin's okay. Alright?" Nathan crossed his arms, just looking annoyed. "Y'ain't tellin' me anythin'."

"That's how I like it."

"...Yeh."

"You haven't asked me this many questions about my day since I was 19."

"Yer actin' like nothin' even happened, dood."

"I don't care enough, I guess."

"You just, like, tried to die."

"We see people die in concert all the time, dude, who gives a shit."

"...I guess."

"It doesn't matter." He sighed. "Just forget about it."

-

But he couldn't forget about it. Though Nathan was up and out of his room, it seemed like nobody could forget about it, really. He always had someone behind him, even when Pickles wasn't around. Skwisgaar would follow him, Toki would follow him, even Murderface would follow him.

In the tabloids and magazines it just said Nathan had an accident. Pickles was alright with that. He didn't want Nathan's suicide publicized, by god, people would just begin bugging him even more than usual. So it just wasn't mentioned. An overhanging fact that nobody wanted to mention. An incident that nobody wanted to discuss, or even believe in. It was as painful a slog as Pickles expected it to be, but expecting it didn't make it hurt any less.

Dinners were uncomfortably silent. Nathan hardly even ate anything -- Pickles was terrified that he was just trying to kill himself slowly, and had to convince him to choke down something. Seeing the guy not eat was a crime, really.

A crime.

Kind of like seeing him dead.

But one time, at the dinner table, Murderface cleared his throat and began to speak. Which was surreal. Hearing him start a conversation was a once-in-a-lifetime experience for most, and Pickles had known him for about twenty-odd years.

"...How'sch yer day."

Everyone stared at him for a moment.

"Ja, it dones beens olrights." Skwisgaar didn't look up from his guitar.

"Very goods! A good times! I goes to de petting zoos!" Toki was grinning. "I gets to pets a little goats on de horns!"

"I din't do much." Pickles threw it out there, just because he could. Nathan was silent for a moment, before chiming in.

"I haven't done anything in twenty-two years."

A new quietness fell. An uncomfortable one. A foggy one. Murderface slowly sat back down. "You didn't say how your day was, asshole." Nathan's cheek met his palm, staring expectantly at Murderface. The bassist stared as though his blood went cold.

"Are you okay?" He looked like he was choking.

"Who cares. Your day. How was it."

"Uh."

"Uh?"

"...Nevermind."

And off he went. Pickles whined, standing up and running after him. He'd disappeared down the hall and into his bedroom. He knocked and tugged and shouted, but the bassist wouldn't come back out. Silence. Solitude.

"Murderface?"

He'd sat down by the door at this point. Not hungry, not alcohol-withdrawn, just kind of foggy. "...Willy?"

There was a whine on the other side of the wall, the door opening a sliver. Pickles got on his hands and knees, slowly standing up to meet the one bloodshot eye in the doorway. "C'mahn, kid. What's th' matter?"

"I don't know what he'sch scho schad about." His voice was low, shaking. A rare tone for Murderface, surely. "I'm the only one who should be depressched. Nobody would give a shit if I tried to kill myschelf, scho I should'a juscht done it, I bet he--"

"Hey, hey, hey. Slow down." Pickles sighed. "Don't say stuff like that, it would'a killed us all to see anyone dead. Even if we ain't gonna admit it."

"It'sch wrong. That he almoscht died while I wasch schitting around on my assch like the fat fuck I am."

"Why don't you let me in--"

"No. I-I can't."

"Murderface." He was almost maternal, crossing his arms. "I'm here fer every one'a you dumbasses."

"...I relapsched."

"Y'cut yerself?"

"Uh-huh."

"Alright, you still got a bandage roll in there?"

"Uh... I-I don't know."

"Alright, open the door kiddo."

The door slid halfway open. Murderface's upper arms were bleeding, though the work looked a bit shoddy, so at least he wasn't on the verge of death. Pickles hastily tore into his drawer, finding a box of Dethklok-brand band-aids and sticking them across the razor marks. 

"Schorry."

"When'd ya do dis?"

"Before dinner."

"Aw, Willy..." He gave Murderface a small hug, making sure not to pull at any skin on his arms. "I wish everythin' was alright. I promise you, it'll get better, I can fix it."

"No, it ain't gonna."

"I swear."

It was an empty promise.

"I feel like shit all the time, an' Nathan'sch like, human perfection, if he'sch depressched then what am I?"

"We're all depressed. 's just how it is."

"...It'd be fine if I died. Why'd he have to do it? It'd be fine if..."

"It wouldn't be fine!" Pickles was trying his damnest not to shout. It came off a little louder than he intended, still, and Murderface flinched, momentarily drawing his hands over his face. "...It wouldn't be fine at all."

"That'sch schtupid."

"Call it whatever y'want." He breathed deeply, regaining some modicum of composure. "...'s how I feel."

"Dumbassch."

"I think y'need yer sleep."

"Schleep isch for gaylordsch."

"Yeh. Exactly."

Murderface lightly smacked Pickles on the arm before flopping into his bed. It was only 6 PM, but he looked like he hadn't slept in days, so Pickles flicked the lights off, allowing him a bit of respite for the time being. "G'night."

He closed the door and-- goddamnit, Nathan was outside.

"Why is he asleep, it's 6 PM."

"Nate'n." He cocked a brow. "He ain't slept in a few days."

"Wow. What a dumbass."

"Don't be dat way."

"Big baby."

"It's been a rough time for all of us."

"Fuck do you have to be upset about?"

"...Nuthin'."

"That's what I figured."

Pickles wasn't sure whether to scold Nathan or pity him.

-

Practice was rare as of late. Getting Nathan out of bed was half the battle, and it was a battle that, generally, Pickles didn't see as worth fighting. But today he managed, and everyone was playing as well as they could.

"Y'know, singing songs about dying horribly loses it's charm when it's almost happened."

"That'sch why I don't sching."

Nathan rolled his eyes. Murderface gave him a nudge.

"Shut the fuck up, dude."

"We's ams all beens in lifes-or-deffs situmackations, ja?" Toki shrugged. "Imagines it amnt's abouts you, I guess?"

"But then who do I use for the music video?"

"...Goods points."

"Whatever, just go to the next song. What else was on our setlist? Castratikron?"

"Look, Nate'n, if you ain't up fer it then just say so."

"Uuuuuugh."

"'m jus' sayin'!"

"Stop being dumb." Nathan cleared his throat. "Skwisgaar. The setlist. What's next."

"Natens, I t'inks dis amn'ts gon's to goes wells, Pickle looks like he ams abouts to smacks yous." Nathan grunted in reply, grabbing the studio microphone in one large hand. "But, uh, de nexts songs was T'underhorse."

"Thunderhorse. Right."

"Nate'n, don't ignore me!" Pickles lightly kicked him in the shin. His cheeks puffed out in annoyance. "Murderface, stop playin' the bassline to Thunderhorse!"

"I thought that'sch what we were doing."

"Pickles. Dude." Nathan pinched the bridge of his nose. "It was an offhanded comment, alright, just get over it."

"Can't you let me worry about yer ass fer two seconds?!"

"Worrying is fucking gay!"

"I don't care if you think it is, the fact stands dat you just tried to kill yourself super recently and we're all actin' like it didn't happen! Fuck!" His foot collided with the bass drum, causing it to fall over. "Are you just okay with that?!"

"Yes, I'm okay with it."

"Dat's fucked up!"

"...It is?"

"You didn't know dat?! Are you dat fuckin' dense?!"

"Well if I'm that 'dense' maybe you should've let me die, asshole!"

"Guys, why don'ts we justs--" In hindsight, Toki was probably one of the better choices of people to punch in the face. It still wasn't good, though, and Nathan was still a powerhouse, and it still left a sick bruise on his face, swollen and twitching. "...stops."

"Nate'n, what the fuck?!"

"That wasn't supposed to hit Toki."

"You can't hit people!"

"Fuck off."

He stormed out before Pickles could reply with another harsh remark, leaving everyone frazzled and confused. They looked at each other for a moment. Pickles felt like he was burning out from the inside and turned heel, sitting down on the floor. Everyone was speechless. Everything was quiet. Pickles buried his face in his hands. Goddamnit, it was all too much for him, it was all just too damn much and he hated it.

-

"We need to talk."

It was a phrase every couple dreaded hearing, and it came from Pickles' own mouth. He could see Nathan tense in anticipation for the worst. But they did, they did need to talk, and they both knew it, and it had to happen at some point. "...I know yer not okay. And I need you to tell me what's eatin' you. Because I hate seein' you depressed."

"I'm not depressed."

"You are. Okay? Y'wouldn't try and kill yerself if y'weren't depressed."

"...Ugh."

"...I've been in yer position-- I mean, I still am. I'm a mess."

"But I don't have an excuse."

Pickles blinked.

"An excuse?"

"Yeah." He crossed his arms. "Nothing bad ever happens to me. Directing all the attention to myself for my nonexistent problems is shitty."

"...Ah." Pickles was dumbfounded for a moment. Not because, in fact, there was no specific problem plaguing Nathan, moreso because he believed that having severe depression wasn't a problem enough in and of itself. Who had told him that? It made Pickles' blood boil. Who told Nathan that his pain wasn't valid enough to talk about?

"...You just gonna stand there, or."

Pickles blinked, realizing that he'd just been staring into space like a dumbass.

"I, uh." He coughed. "...I dunno if that's how it works."

"What? So I can just be fuckin' depressed all the time for fun? And waste everyone else's time with me when they have their own shit to deal with?" Nathan scoffed. "Don't be a fuckin' idiot."

"I ain't bein' an idiot, it's just, yanno..." A little shrug rose through Pickles' shoulders. "...Yer human too."

"Pssht."

"Shush, Nate'n." He crosses his arms. "You can tell me whatever you want, but you need help too. Y'ain't, like... a perfect brick wall of emotionless-ness."

"But being a pussy ain't metal."

"It ain't bein' a pussy, stupid."

"Stupid."

"Stupid."

"Stupid!"

"Dumbass!"

"Fuckin'... uh... piss... baby!"

"Asshat!"

"Dicklord!"

"Shithead!"

"Guhhh!" Nathan pulled at his own hair, turning around, away from Pickles. "...There's nothing wrong with me."

"...Yer right. Yer great. Even if yer depressed. Ain't nothin' wrong with bein' a little depressed."

Nathan paused, fingers tangling together. Nothing wrong with being a little depressed? That seemed fucking ridiculous. Pickles' arms made their way around his stomach, pulling him in close -- he was so short his head barely touched Nathan's shoulderblades.

"...I'm sorry I punched Toki in the face."

"Well, don't tell me dat, tell him dat."

"...Okay."

-

"Hey, Skwisgaar, it's 2 AM. What're you doin'?"

"Well, uh, Charles was done's here talkin's about concerts and stuffs, and, uh..." Skwisgaar shrugged. "Den he leaves and Natens appears, and he's wants to watch dems carktoonses and gets drunks." Nathan appeared to be sleeping. "...Dens he folls asleeps."

"Well 'm glad he's outta his room."

"Ja. Wants to sits downs?"

Pickles nodded, plunking down next to Nathan, with Skwisgaar on the other side. "...So, ams he doin's betters?"

"A little."

"Dat ams good."

He looked so damn tranquil in his sleep. Pickles absentmindedly braided his hair as he slept, watching the rise and fall of his chest beneath the layers of blanket. "...Charles says dere ams gon's to be a concerts soons. De, uh... Natens returns doin's-betters concerts."

"Really? We ain't gotten much practicin' done."

"Amn'ts my problems, I's already solids on all dems chords."

"...Right."

"So, what's ams de matters wit' hims?"

"Long time a' depression. Not much of a catalyst, I guess it's just been like dat fer awhile."

"Damn."

"Yeh, it happens when ya get old, I guess."

"...Ams we olds?"

"Uh... I dunno."

"Thirties amn'ts dat olds."

"Yeh, I guess."

"I means, you ams olders den mes, so."

"Yeh."

"Ja."

"...So how's things."

"Beens betters, beens worse-ers."

"Yeh. Things are lookin' up, I guess."

"...You t'inks he ams gon's to be okays?"

"I hope."

In his sleep, Nathan's head rolled back into Pickles' hand, and he scratched the back of his head in return. "...Damn, I hope." Skwisgaar nodded, leaning back into the couch. "What were you little bastards watchin'?"

"Ahh... Gramvities Folls."

"Oh, nice. Can I watch?"

"Shore, whatevers."

-

"Is everyone ready?"

"Uh-huh."

"Yeah."

"Sure."

"Good."

Pickles nodded, staring out onto the stage. As usual, the venue was packed, and they'd made shitloads off of tickets. Voices overwhelmed the big auditorium, and the concert had yet to even start. Pickles pulled back into the backstage area.

Nathan was perched on top of a large amp, one leg kicked over the other, reclined against a wall. Pickles approached him, mouth curling into his silly, smirky grin.

"You ready?"

"Of course, I've been doing this for years."

"Jest makin' sure." He hopped up beside Nathan, leaning his head on his chest. "Yanno. I always wanna die, right?"

"Uh-huh."

"But when I see all dose dildoes out dere it kinda makes me glad I haven't."

"...Yeah."

This time, Nathan drew him in, clutching his whole body. "God, I... thank you. Just- for like, uh, everything you've done. Thank you, I'm, uh, I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize, dood. 's fine." He looked up at Nathan's face for a moment. "...Yer eye makeup is leakin', bro."

"It is? Shit."

"Don't wipe it, it'll smudge."

"...Right. You think anyone will notice?"

"Even if dey do, dey ain't gonna complain."

"Yeah... yeah."

"Hey, homosch!" Murderface was standing before them, stance wide and arms crossed. "We need to go on schoon, and you can't be schittin' here being gay the whole conschert, scho get yer asschesch in gear!"

"Alright, alright, Willy." Pickles rolled his eyes, giving Nathan a kiss on the lips. "...Y'wanna go drinkin' later?"

"Damn straight I do."

Thank god, this time, there was a 'later'.


End file.
